Postcard , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Beverly Lewis

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

143 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Bestselling author Beverly Lewis's story of a weary big-city journalist and a New Order Amish woman whose lives come together over a mysterious postcard.

Sujets

Historical romance

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 janvier 2007
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781585586806
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0432€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

©1999 by Beverly Lewis
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan. www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 04.14.2016, 03.27.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-58558-680-6
Most Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Other Scripture quotations labeled NIV 1984 are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, is a village located in central Lancaster County; however, with the exception of Bishop Jacob J. Hershberger, the characters in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Koechel Peterson & Associates
To Dave, my beloved helpmate and husband.
To the memory of my dear aunt, Gladys Buchwalter, who, along with her co-worker in the Lord, Dorothy Brosey, led many souls—young and old— to Calvary’s Cross.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Rachel
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Part Two
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Part Three
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Beverly Lewis
Ad
Back Cover
A cloud, unforeseen, skidded across the ivory moon and darkened his room, if only for a moment. He lit the kerosene lantern and set about rummaging through his bureau drawers, searching for something—anything—on which to write, so eager was he to pen a prompt reply to his beloved’s astonishing letter.
Amish words poured from his joyous heart as he wrote on the back of a plain white postcard. . . .
Prologue: Rachel

It’s all I have to bring today, This, and my heart beside, This, and my heart, and all the fields, And all the meadows wide.
Emily Dickinson (circa 1858)
I used to dream of possessing a full measure of confidence. Used to wonder what it would be like to have at least “a speckle of pluck,” as Mamma often said when I was a girl.
Growing up Plain, I come from a long line of hearty women. Women like my grandmothers and great-grandmothers, who believed in themselves and in working hard, living out the old proverb “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”
Yet, in spite of all that hereditary determination and spunk, I was just the opposite—overly timid and shy. Nearly afraid of my own voice at times. A far cry from the stories told me of my ancestors.
Elizabeth, my next oldest sister, seemed awful worried about me when, upon my sixteenth birthday, I was too bashful to attend my first singing. Turning sixteen was an important milestone in the Amish community. The wonderful coming of age offered long-awaited privileges, such as socializing with boys, being courted.
Lizzy was so concerned, she confided in one of Bishop Fisher’s granddaughters, explaining in a whisper so I wouldn’t hear. “Rachel was born shy” came her tender excuse.
I had overheard, though the reason my sister gave for my perpetual red face didn’t make me feel any much better. ’Least back then it didn’t.
And it didn’t help that all my life one relative or another felt obliged to point out to me that my name means lamb . “Rachel puts herself out, she does. Never mind that it costs her plenty,” Lavina Troyer had declared at a quilting years ago. So my course was set early on. I began to live up to my father’s distant cousin’s declaration—working hard to keep the house spotless from top to bottom, tending charity gardens as well as my own, eating fresh in the summer months, putting up more than sufficient canned goods for the winter months, and attending work frolics.
Now that I’ve been married for over six years—a mother of two with another baby on the way—I’ve come out of my shell just a bit, thanks to my husband, Jacob, and his constant encouragement. Still, I wonder what it would take to be truly brave, to develop the kind of admirable traits I see so clearly in my eleven siblings, most of them older.
As for church, Jacob and I left the strict Old Order behind when we married, joining the ranks of the Amish Mennonites, which broke Mamma’s heart—and she never forgot it! I ’spect she’s still hoping we’ll come to our senses and return someday.
Beachy Amish, that’s what the non-Amish community (“English” folk) call us now—after Moses Beachy, who founded the original group in 1927. Our church does not shun church members who leave and join other Plain groups, and we hold public worship in a common meetinghouse. Often our bishop, Isaac Glick, allows the preachers to read from the newly translated Pennsylvania Dutch version of the New Testament instead of High German, which the young people don’t understand anyhow. We embrace the assurance of salvation, and we use electricity and other modern conveniences like telephones, but a few church members rely on horse-drawn carriages for transportation.
Still, we dress Plain and hold fast to our Anabaptist lifestyle. Besides my husband, I am most grateful that the Lord has seen fit to give me a confidante in my cousin Esther Glick. Confiding my deepest thoughts to my Pennsylvania turned-Ohio cousin is always a joy. It seems easier to pour out my heart in a letter than face-to-face with any of my sisters. Esther and I had often shared our deepest secrets as youngsters—we go back as far as I can remember. Maybe further. I’ve heard it told that Esther’s mother—Aunt Leah— and my mother experienced the first twinges of labor at the exact hour. So my cousin and I are a faithful reflection of our mothers’ sisterly love.
Every Friday, without fail, I stop whatever I’m doing and write her a letter.
Friday, June 17
Dearest Esther,
It has been ever so busy here, what with the summer season in full swing. Jacob says we will soon have enough money saved to move to Holmes County.
Oh, I miss you so! Just think—if we do live neighbors to you, we’ll quilt and can and raise our children together once more!
Tomorrow’s a busy day at Farmers Market. Jacob has handcrafted lots of fine oak and pine furniture for our market stand. He’s worked especially hard at restocking the little wooden rocking chairs and toy trucks. Lancaster tourists snatch them right up—hardly think twice about opening their pocketbooks. We cater too much to outsiders, I fear. But then, tourism is our main industry these days. Not like it used to be when Lancaster farmland was plenty and not so dear. Things are changing rapidly here.
Remember the times I hid under the market tables at Roots and the Green Dragon? Remember how Mamma would scold? Every now and then, I look in the mirror and still see a young girl. Running alongside Mill Creek at breakneck speed, through glimmering shadows of willows and maple, I used to pretend I was the wind. Imagine that! I did enjoy my childhood so, growing up here in the country, away from the noise and bedlam of Lancaster.
Speaking of childhood, I see signs of friskiness in young Aaron. So much like Mamma he is, and only five! Annie, on the other hand, is more like Jacob— agreeable and companionable. My husband laughs when I tell him so, though deep down I ’spect he’s awful pleased.
As for our next little Yoder, I do believe he or she will be a mighty active one. The way this baby wrestles inside me is a new experience altogether. I daresay the baby is a boy, probably another mischief in the making! Not a single one of my children shows any signs of shyness, like their mamma, and I ’spose I’m glad ’bout that.
Ach, forgive me for going on so .
Stopping, I adjusted the waistline of my choring dress, letting my eyes roam over the letter. Jah , I was downright uncomfortable these days. Oughta finish hemming the maternity dress I started yesterday. But first things first . . .
Jacob’s itching to get his fingers back in the soil. Won’t be long and he’ll have his twenty-sixth birthday. I’m close behind at twenty-four, still young enough to hold on to certain dreams, you know, trusting the Lord to help make them come true. Even though we married young, we’ve worked mighty hard for a chance to buy some land, like you and Levi. We’re both eager for that day—farming’s im blud— in the blood.
Jacob’s a good provider and a kind and loving husband. We’re good friends, too, which isn’t too often the case among some husbands and wives. (I have you to thank for setting us up. If it hadn’t been for you, I might never have gone to my first singing back when!)
’Course, I’d never want to return to my single days— ach! My face was always that befuddled pink. Remember? When I look into Aaron’s bright eyes, I can’t help but see the hope of the future. Such a spirited disposition he has, and I am indeed grateful. When Annie points out the colors of a dewy rose garden at early morning or the changing sky at sunset (she really does have a keen eye for nature at just four)—it makes me stop and count my blessings. So very many!
Sometimes I think the dear Lord has showered too many wonderful-gut things down on me. But you know my reticent heart, Esther, that I do have much to be thankful for.
Mam and Dat are finally settled one hundred percent in their new place. Jus